


Courage, my love

by PlainJane



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Complete, First Kiss, First Time, Frottage, M/M, Prostate Massage, more tags to come, nipple sucking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-21
Updated: 2016-02-08
Packaged: 2018-05-15 06:58:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5776009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PlainJane/pseuds/PlainJane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When it comes to his feelings for Sherlock, John is not embarrassed—he’s terrified. But it’s time to face those demons.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is something that just fluttered into my brain, based on the many excellent meta posts I've seen going around right now about Lestrade and the decanter in "The Abominable Bride" (as a parallel to Mofftiss’ hint that there is a significance to John’s drinking). This work is mostly complete, but I will be posting additional chapters over the next week or so.

It happened quite by accident.

At least that was what Sherlock told himself later, in the cab.

They’d been following a lead in Bromley, just out from Crystal Palace Station. It had been a relatively uneventful excursion. In truth, it was nothing they couldn’t have done on the internet, but Sherlock had felt it was important to get John out of the flat for a while. He’d been sullen and difficult for days.

Sherlock knew, of course, that the formal dissolution of his marriage was weighing heavily on his mind. John was an honourable man, and he had loved Mary. While the events with “Moriarty” had put the final nails in that coffin, Sherlock knew it hadn’t been easy.

John had been home, at Baker Street, for a few weeks. Sherlock had tried to be restrained in his responses. He didn’t want to offend John with his obvious delight in having his best friend back at 221B. Not when John was still struggling.

But Sherlock was delighted. He’d never wanted anything more in his life, and when it happened—when John had turned up at the top of the stairs, bags in hand—Sherlock had been as happy as he could ever remember being.

He did try to contain his good mood, but today it had spilled over. Much to everyone’s mortification.

He’d kissed John. Right there at Crystal Palace Station, on the platform waiting for the Southern train to London Victoria.

John had been chuckling over the animated way Sherlock related his thoughts about the letters their client had received, and then had praised Sherlock for a (admittedly brilliant) deduction about the origin of the man’s toupee. It had been so effortless between them, like the old days. Sherlock had simply moved without thinking.

He’d stepped in, cupped John’s delightful square jaw in both hands, and drawn him up. He’d happily slotted his fuller bottom lip between both of John’s as naturally as though he’d been doing it for years, and hummed his pleasure at the warm, moist pressure.

John’s mouth had opened on a gasp and Sherlock had pulled away immediately.

John hadn’t said anything, of course. He’d blinked a few times, cheeks flushed. Finally, he’d just ground his teeth and marched away from Sherlock to board the train that had just arrived. He’d stared out the window and said nothing for the duration of the trip. He was still silent when they caught the cab that brought them home.

Now, standing in Mrs. Hudson’s foyer, Sherlock felt compelled somehow to make amends.

“I’m sorry.”

John was grim, tugging his gloves off with more force than was strictly necessary. He stuffed them in the pockets of his jacket before removing it and hanging it on the hook by the door. Sherlock did the same with his coat.

“I know I should have asked.”

This earned him a hard stare—the kind only Captain Watson could give.

John stomped up the stairs, muttering to himself. It was something that sounded very much like “bloody right.”

Sherlock followed, quickly recalculating his approach.

It wasn’t as though John was immune to him entirely. He knew that. He knew, too, that it was ridiculous to think John could love him back in the same way—regardless of what happened in his Mind Palace. Yet there was still something between them. Perhaps…

“I’d make it good.”

John stopped short just inside their sitting room door, but did not turn. “What?”

“The, you know. Physical…stuff,” Sherlock tried. He closed the sitting room door behind them. “My experience is not extensive. And I know you’re not gay. But I know some men would…you know. If no one knew. And no one would ever know. Also, I know you care about me and of course I care about you. I would give you whatever you needed. Whatever—” Sherlock broke off, head drooping. He shrugged helplessly. “Whatever you wanted. I would do that. And I would never ask for anything. Or tell anyone. If you…”

“If _no one knew_?” John repeated, turning now to face Sherlock. His expression was one of horror.

Sherlock nodded.

“You-you think that’s what this is?” John stammered. “That I’m ashamed of…that I’m embarrassed?”

Sherlock blinked and shook his head. “Well…yes?” He looked up at John, brow furrowed. “Isn’t that what you always said? ‘I’m not his date.’ ‘I’m not gay.’ ‘People will talk.’ I _can_ take a hint.” He considered this for a second. “Sometimes.”

A horrible noise stuck in John’s throat and his face twisted as though he were in pain. He braced himself against the wall with one hand. The other hand flattened with a thump over the centre of his chest as he bent slightly from the waist. His breathing was rapid—far too rapid. He was beginning to hyperventilate. Sherlock could see the sweat beading on his forehead.

“What is it?” Sherlock asked sharply. He knew he needed to stay calm, but John was such a horrible grey colour. He looked so small and broken.

Sherlock reached toward John, but stopped just short of touching him. His fingers curled and uncurled in the air with the desperate need to feel John’s comforting solidity beneath his fingertips. “John, please. I don’t know what this is. What’s wrong? Are you ill?”

John shook his head.

“Oh, god, are you having a heart attack? Should I call 999?”

John struggled to shake his head again, still breathing too hard. “Panic…” he gasped. “Attack.”

“What do I do?” Sherlock begged, edging closer. “What do you need?”

“Okay,” John gasped, grasping at Sherlock’s shirtsleeve with his other hand. “Be okay…in a minute. Just…too much…”

Sherlock scanned the room desperately for something to help. “We should probably get you sitting. Shouldn’t we? That seems sensible.”

John nodded weakly, still working to control his breathing. Sherlock reached out once more, fingers stretching toward their goal, before curling back in against clammy palms. This time, John’s need made the decision for him.

John released the wall and scrabbled for Sherlock’s other arm. Sherlock slid into him, almost groaning with the satisfaction of it. He eased his wobbly legged friend up against his side and wrapped an arm around his waist. John crumpled a little, letting Sherlock bear his weight.

Sherlock turned John gently back toward the sitting room and the comfort of the fire Mrs. Hudson had clearly laid in expectation of their return. He walked them slowly, relishing the press of John’s body and the gradual slowing of each shuddering breath. He stopped beside John’s chair and eased him down.

John sat heavily, still holding on to Sherlock’s shirtsleeve. Sherlock took one step back then, briefly considering whether he should withdraw.

“Stay,” John rasped. “Please.”

With a firm nod, Sherlock considered his options. He elected to do the most expedient thing—which would bring him closest to John—and dropped to his knees at John’s feet.

“What do I do?” he asked again, feeling lost.

This was not his area. This was what John did. Strong, brave, competent John was the one who cared for people. He was so good at it. So assured. He always made Sherlock feel safe.

“Tell me what you need.”

John grabbed for Sherlock’s right hand and pressed it into his thigh. He clasped it there and tried to smile. Sherlock returned the lop-sided effort.

They stayed that way for some time. John closed his eyes and let his head fall back. Sherlock watched him and listened to the popping of the fire and the cadence of John’s breathing. Beneath his palm, where it was pressed into John’s denim-covered thigh, he could just make out the reassuring throb of the now-slowing pulse.

Finally, at length, John blew out one last heavy breath. He lifted his head to meet Sherlock’s eyes. “I’m not embarrassed, Sherlock.”

“Oh.”

“I’m not ashamed,” John went on. “And I’m sorry I led you to think that.”

There was an extended pause as Sherlock allowed this to sink in. “Okay.”

“The idea of you and me. Us. Men…I’m not—it’s not the first time.”

“I see,” Sherlock said evenly.

The fingers of his free hand dug into the dark wool of his trousers as an unimagined jealousy struck. He thought of John with another man. Sholto. Of course. A sharp pain flared in his chest. The women had been bad enough, but if it wasn’t being with men that John had an issue with, then that meant…

“No, you don’t,” John said, his voice still rough. He tried again to smile and this time he succeeded.

“No, I don’t.”

John was rubbing over the back of Sherlock’s hand with his thumb. “It’s not the first time I’ve been attracted to a man, but I’ve never…never done…”

Sherlock nodded awkwardly. He hoped his relief wasn’t too obvious.

“I said what I said because I didn’t want people making assumptions about my place here. With you. I’d been reduced from surgeon and soldier to—” John released a ragged breath. “God, I felt like shit when I got home from the war. I felt worthless. And I didn’t want people to think I was only along with you because we were—because I was just your charity-case boyfriend. Or your ‘live-in PA.’”

Sherlock bristled. “Did someone call you that? Who was it?”

“Never mind,” John sighed. He squeezed Sherlock’s hand. “After Bart’s, I couldn’t bear being cast as the grieving widower. Not when we weren’t …” He shook his head. “So, anyway, it’s not being gay. Or in my case bisexual, I guess.” John pondered this with a funny expression, as though in saying it out loud suddenly everything in the world had just settled into place.

“Right. Bisexual.”

“Yeah.”

“So you do—?” Sherlock couldn’t quite give voice to the question, but he needed the answer. He was desperate for it.

“Want you,” John finished, eyes closing once more as he dipped his chin. “God, so much, Sherlock. So much I ache with it.”

Sherlock’s mouth instantly desiccated. He couldn’t seem to form words around his thick tongue. He stared at John and tried to keep his hand still on John’s leg. He wanted nothing more than to smooth up and over the contours of John’s thigh and press into the promising heat at its apex.

“That was never it,” John continued. “I’ve loved you for as long as I can remember, really. And I’ve wanted you for ages.”

“Then why…?”

“I’m not embarrassed, Sherlock,” John whispered.

He looked up until their eyes met. Sherlock was startled to see unshed tears.

In a voice that was more breath than sound, John said simply, “I’m terrified.”


	2. Chapter 2

Having been advised that sometimes brave men don’t _want_ a drink, they _need_ one, Sherlock quickly moved to pour John a small brandy. He poured himself a whisky, for good measure, and downed it in one mouthful. When they were both comfortably seated once more—each in his own chair, fortified by liquid courage—they continued.

“Are you scared of _me_?” Sherlock asked softly.

“No. God, no. Not like that.”

“But it is me.”

John shook his head, his expression dark. “I grew up being told that what I felt was wrong. My sister didn’t get on with my parents after she came out. They didn’t turn their backs, exactly, but they never accepted it. I just always thought I wouldn’t make that choice.” John cleared his throat. “And for the most part, it didn’t matter. I like women; I found enough women who liked me. I didn’t have to worry about it.”

“What changed?”

John quirked an eyebrow at him.

“Oh.”

“For the first time, I’d found a man who made me want to say ‘Fuck it all.’ I knew you were it for me.”

Sherlock felt heat rising to his cheeks. “I didn’t think…”

“Because you don’t understand how extraordinary you are. That’s the lie _you_ believed growing up.”

Sherlock didn’t have a response for that, but his whole body warmed at John’s affirmation.

“Thing is, I was worried that you wouldn’t want a relationship. I didn’t think you felt things that way.”

“And then?”

“Adler. I know she turned your head a bit.”

Sherlock blushed now. He hated being reminded of the way she’d played him, though he couldn’t help but admire her for it.

“But even if it wasn’t anything more than that, it helped me see that you do…feel things. From that moment, I decided to maybe find out where it might lead,” John continued with a sniffle. “But just as I was about to chuck a lifetime’s worth of conditioning, you were gone.”

Sherlock slumped with the weight of that familiar guilt. “I thought—I believed—that you didn’t…I didn’t think it would hurt you so badly.”

“I know. I didn’t tell you how I felt. You didn’t know how much I—” John swallowed hard. “I lost the one thing on earth that I really didn’t think I could live without. I was shattered.”

“I know.”

“I know you do.”

They stared at each other. Sherlock knew his own drug-dulled heartbreak, that day on the tarmac, was mirrored in John’s grim expression.

“I know we didn’t have any choices just then,” John said huskily. “I still wish you hadn’t had to go through that.”

“I know,” Sherlock said firmly, his voice low.

The tears that been threatening were now very close to spilling over John’s cheeks. He set his brandy on the table beside his chair and clenched his fist.

“When I thought I’d lost you, I was dead,” he said, his voice shaking. “There was nothing left. I’d come back from the brink when I met you and I knew I couldn’t do it again. Not when I’d lost the one person who made me feel alive. I’d missed my chance and you were gone. I couldn’t—” John choked on the words. “Mary patched me back together, but I wasn’t the same. And then you came home. I was so angry with you for what you’d put me through, and so proud of you for doing what you did—what you went through chasing down all those criminals. And I was so desperate for you to tell me that you did it all for me. I wanted it to be for me.”

“Oh, god, John,” Sherlock rasped. He slid forward in his seat to reach for John’s hand. “It was always for you. Everything.”

“And then with Magnussen and Mary and Moriarty–christ, I was so close to losing you again.” John began to tremble. “I am not good at this stuff, Sherlock. I’m not. I don’t know how…” He ducked his head once more and his shoulders began to shake.

Sherlock stared helplessly, once more overwhelmed with the need to offer physical comfort. John was crying.

_John doesn’t cry._

Sherlock leaped to his feet without further deliberation and dragged John up and into his arms. It was rough, undignified and awkward. John was still a bit weak in the knees—his lack of balance nearly tipped them both to the floor. But he was pliant as Sherlock wrapped both arms around his shoulders and held him, hard, pressing his cheek into the side of John’s head.

“I have you,” he ground out. “Everything is going to be all right. I have you.”

John sobbed and grabbed fistfuls of the back of Sherlock’s blue shirt as he buried his face in Sherlock’s shoulder.

As they clung together, Sherlock was aware of _everything_. He catalogued it greedily—he wanted every element of this earth-shattering moment to remain in his Mind Palace forever. The scent of John’s shampoo and the way John’s shoulders fit so perfectly within the circle of his arms. The unearthly stillness of their sitting room, as though the traffic and bustle of Baker Street had simply halted for the benefit of their coming together. The texture of John’s jumper against his hands and the glorious sensation of John’s strong arms around his ribcage. The heat of John’s rare tears as they saturated his silk shirt.

They might leave a stain; Sherlock would keep the shirt forever if they did.

Very best of all was the _realness_ of John—the very solid, physically present touch of John Watson against his own body. It was nearly more than he could process. If he didn’t know better, he would have sworn he was high.

“I love you,” he whispered into John’s hair.

Later, when they revisited that fateful moment, they would debate who moved first. Sherlock would swear that John had lifted his damp face to capture Sherlock’s mouth. John would argue that Sherlock had nudged John’s chin up to press his mouth to John’s.

In truth, it made absolutely no difference at all.

John moaned into Sherlock’s mouth, eagerly taking advantage of the opportunity to slip his tongue within. Sherlock sucked on it as he dug his fingers into John’s nape to hold him in place. Their faces were wet, and their heated kisses even more so, but neither cared. They kissed as though they had nothing left to lose, and no more time to waste.

“I love you,” John breathed against Sherlock’s cheek. “God, how I love you.”

“ _John_.” Sherlock pressed their brows together.

“Never let go. Promise me.”

“I promise.”


	3. Chapter 3

John’s shaky legs eventually gave out, but neither of them was interested in going any further than the floor. They settled in front of the fireplace, still wrapped in each other’s arms. Sherlock made a circle for John with his arms and legs; John shuffled in to press his back to Sherlock’s chest. It was effortless, as though they had always been this way together.

They sat in the quiet for some time. There was more to say, Sherlock knew, but they had conquered so much already. And he could feel John slipping into slumber. They were both drained with the release of the tension that was so many years in the making.

“Warm enough?” Sherlock asked gently.

John hummed in the affirmative, settling heavier against Sherlock’s chest.

“Do you want to go to bed?”

“Mmmmm, no,” John mumbled. His hand tightened around Sherlock’s forearm where it rested against his chest. “Feel so good here.”

Sherlock smiled and pressed his cheek against the side of John’s head. “Perhaps we should lie down?”

“’Kay,” John muttered.

Sherlock scrambled to his knees and stretched up to tug the blanket and the Union Jack cushion from John’s chair. He rearranged sleepy John until they were lying covered up on their sides—John’s little spoon to Sherlock’s big one—with their heads sharing the one cushion and their backs to the fire.

Sherlock tried to stay awake, just to listen to John’s even breathing and enjoy the novelty of holding John in his arms a little longer. Eventually, though, he drifted off.

When he finally woke, it was to filtered sunlight peeking between the heavy curtains, and the unusual and very pleasant sight of John staring down at him.

Sherlock had settled on his back and John was now hovering over him, head propped by one elbow. John was smiling, and the crinkles at the corners of his eyes made him look even more handsome. And happier. He reached out with his free hand and brushed the backs of his knuckles over Sherlock’s cheekbone.

“Morning,” he said. His voice was still sleep-soft and a bit rumbly—it sent delightful tingles down Sherlock’s spine.

“Morning,” Sherlock replied. “How long have you been awake?”

“A few minutes,” John replied, still tracing his fingers over Sherlock’s face. “Not long.”

Sherlock waited, enjoying the tenderness and affection in John’s eyes.

“Have I ever mentioned,” John began softly. “How ridiculously good-looking you are?”

“You teased me about my cheekbones once,” Sherlock replied. “And turning up my coat collar to look cool. Does that count?”

“Hmm, well only in the sense of dipping your curls in the inkwell.”

“Sorry?”

John sighed, rubbing his thumb over Sherlock’s bottom lip. “You know, doing—or saying—something mean to get your attention so you’d figure out that I think you’re pretty.”

“I’m not pretty.”

“You are a bit.”

“No, I’m—wait, you were actually trying to tell me then that you think I’m pretty?”

John sighed. “Yeah, well, it was more of a slip on my part, mentioning your face like that. God, you just looked so amazing. The whole bloody time we were in Dartmoor. Good thing you didn’t catch on.”

“Well, I did eventually.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“I did. I—John, you look at my face all the time!”

John snickered. “I know.”

“Especially at my lips.”

“I know.”

“And at my neck,” Sherlock insisted. “You’re staring at it right now.”

“I reeeeeally am,” John drawled.

“Granted, I may not be as astute at judging human desire as you are, but I did eventually realize that you might be a little bit attracted to me. In some way.”

“A _lot_ attracted to you. In _every_ way,” John growled, leaning in to place an open-mouthed kiss on the little mole beside Sherlock’s Adam’s apple. He flicked at the sensitive skin with his tongue before mouthing up to nuzzle under Sherlock’s jaw.

Sherlock tilted his head up to allow John access. He gasped at the delightful feeling of John’s morning stubble against his skin and the hot mouth now sucking at his earlobe. He shifted a little in John’s direction. “Is-is-isn’t it counterproductive, then? The-the inkwell thing?” he managed.

John lifted his head for a moment, clearly amused. “Yeah,” he admitted sheepishly. “It’s a stupid thing we let little boys get away with instead of teaching them how to ask nicely.”

Sherlock swallowed hard as he took in John’s dilated pupils and flushed cheeks. Oh, god, he was biting his bottom lip. “ _Oh_.”

“Mmmm,” John agreed. “So since I’m not an ill-mannered little boy, and I’ve finally managed to tell you how much I love you…”

“Yes?” Sherlock asked breathlessly.

“I think you’re gorgeous and I’m asking nicely if I might do something about that,” John finished, moving to once more stroke over Sherlock’s cheek.

Sherlock swallowed hard, never taking his eyes from John’s. “John, I don’t know—”

“It’s okay,” John said swiftly. “We don’t have to.”

“How,” Sherlock finished. “I don’t know how.”

“Oh.” John’s palm flattened over Sherlock’s chest—a soothing, grounding weight. He grinned at Sherlock. “Actually, neither do I, really.”

Sherlock chuckled softly and John started to laugh with him.

“Oh my god, are we a pair. A virgin and a bisexual who’s never been with a man.” John collapsed onto his back.

Eventually his gentle chuckles gave way to his silly—and delightful—high-pitched giggle. The absurdity of it was too much and Sherlock began to laugh in earnest. By the time they’d calmed down, they both had tears in their eyes.

John turned his head to look at Sherlock. “Maybe we should try a date.”

“A date?” Sherlock repeated, turning his head so their noses were nearly touching.

John grasped Sherlock’s hand and pulled it to his lips. He kissed Sherlock’s knuckles and grinned. “Would you like to go out for dinner with me tonight?”

“Yes. Yes, I would.”

“Good.”

John continued to hold Sherlock’s hand, clasping it to his chest with both of his own. They both turned to stare up at the ceiling as they rested side by side in companionable silence.

“We should probably get up. Eventually,” Sherlock suggested.

“Probably,” John agreed.

“And shower.”

“Definitely.”

“Do you want to go first?”

“Only one problem with that,” John said, grimacing.

“What?”

“I’m a middle-aged man and a wounded veteran and I’ve been sleeping on the hard floor all night,” John said ruefully. “I’ve just realized that it’s probably going to take me an hour to get moving.”

Sherlock sat up and beamed at him. “Well, then, it’s a very good thing you have help.”


	4. Chapter 4

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Sherlock asked, eyeing the familiar restaurant warily. The place was dimly lit and welcoming—somehow it seemed so much more intimate than it had before.

John nodded firmly, handing their coats over to the hostess. “Absolutely. This is our chance for a do-over.”

“Sorry?”

“You know,” John teased gently, with a nudge of his shoulder. “I won’t lie about flirting, and—I don’t know—maybe you could flirt back.”

“Oh.”

“If you wanted to.”

Sherlock smirked. “I might.”

John cleared his throat with a gleam in his eye. “I look forward to it.”

He straightened his tie with one hand and took Sherlock’s hand with the other. He squared his shoulders beneath the suit jacket and Sherlock couldn’t help but admire him. He was dressed in a new dark blue suit—one Sherlock hadn’t seen before—and crisp white shirt. His tie was a deep emerald green.

John glanced up at him. “All right?”

“You look very nice,” Sherlock said simply.

John smiled. “Thanks. You, too.”

Sherlock hoped so. He’d taken a lot of care in choosing his outfit that afternoon, following a leisurely late breakfast and some crap telly. He’d tried several suits while John was making reservations before finally settling on classic charcoal. However he had picked the deep plum coloured shirt he was pretty sure was John’s favourite. And if he happened to have left one more button open than he normally did, what of it?

“John, Sherlock, it’s so good to see you!”

They both looked up to see the large, bearded man moving toward them with a bright smile.

“Hello, Angelo,” Sherlock replied as the large man offered his hand. Sherlock moved to shake it, only then realizing that John still had hold of his right hand.

Angelo glanced down at their clasped hands and winked at John. “Date night, is it? Come on—got my best table for you.”

They followed him, still holding hands. Sherlock had noted that John seemed to be loath to let go. It felt…nice.

“Here we are,” Angelo said, pulling out one of the chairs at the small table. It was tucked into a nook, which would leave them just out of sight of most of the busy restaurant. The table was covered with a scarlet runner and had a small vase with two calla lilies. “Will you be needing a candle this evening?” Angelo asked cheekily.

John chuckled. “Yeah, we will.”

“Right you are.”

Angelo bustled away and John let Sherlock take first pick of the chairs. He seated himself then, at Sherlock’s left side, and fussed nervously with the cutlery.

“Something wrong?” Sherlock asked.

“Not really.” He shrugged. “I suppose I’m a little out of practice at this.”

“What, dinner?”

“Dating.”

Sherlock picked up the menu. “It’s fine. We’ve eaten here before and we talk to each other all the time. Shouldn’t be too difficult.”

“The thing is,” John started. “The thing is, I want this to be perfect.”

“Well, as it’s us it’s hardly likely to be uneventful,” Sherlock scoffed. “I’m sure Lestrade will call. Or who knows, we may get lucky and someone will be poisoned right here!”

“You don’t have to sound so pleased at the idea.”

“Well…”

“Look, I don’t care if we have to go for a case or whatever,” John continued, resting his elbows on the table. “I just want—”

“Yes?” Sherlock looked up from the menu.

“It’s our first date, so I just want you to remember how much I wanted to be here with you tonight. And how much I wanted everyone to know that we’re on a date.”

Sherlock could feel his ears turning pink. He cleared his throat and glanced around to see if anyone was looking from the few tables nearby that might be able to see or hear them.

John leaned in with a wicked look as he whispered, “And I want you to remember that I can’t wait to get you home later.”

“I…”

“Kissing you is probably the best thing I’ve ever done,” John said softly, grinning. With a saucy lick of his lips, he picked up his own menu and casually flipped through it.

“John…”

“Here we are!” Angelo announced as he re-appeared. He set an elaborate glass candle holder down beside Sherlock’s elbow. “Now that’s nice and romantic. Can I start you off with something to drink? Wine?”

“Not for me, thanks,” John said lightly.

Sherlock’s head snapped around. John always had a drink when they were out for dinner. Even if it was just a beer. 

He must have looked puzzled because John reached for his hand.

“Something wrong?” John asked.

“Not exactly,” Sherlock said swiftly. He turned back to Angelo. “Just water for me as well, thanks.”

“Fine. You two enjoy. And anything you want, you just ask.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock said, reaching out to shake Angelo’s hand this time. “We appreciate it.”

Sherlock set his napkin in his lap as he waited for their host to be out of earshot. “No drink?” he asked finally, watching John out of the corner of his eye.

“Nope.” John was intent on his menu. “Should we share a starter?”

“Fine,” Sherlock agreed. “You choose. Any particular reason?”

“What, for the starter?”

Sherlock sighed heavily. “For no drink.”

“Oh. No, not really,” John replied, glancing up. “I mean, I do want to be in really good shape tonight.” He paused and thought a moment before shrugging. “But, yeah, mostly I just don’t feel like it. Why?”

Sherlock contemplated telling him—pointing out his observations about John’s drinking and the connection he had made in his Mind Palace between drinking and fear—but perhaps that was a conversation best left to a later time. “Just wondered.”

“You go ahead and have one, if you’d like.”

“No, it’s fine,” Sherlock said softly. He laid his hand on top of John’s. “It’s all fine.”

John face softened and he leaned in for a kiss—just a brief, chaste pressing of lips. “It certainly is.”

“Does that count as flirting?” Sherlock whispered, with their mouths still only centimetres apart.

“An excellent effort,” John rumbled.

The rest of the evening passed relatively quickly. As Sherlock had predicted, the conversation flowed easily. They laughed, John listened a lot, and Sherlock—much to his consternation—blushed more than once. The food was good and they tasted each other’s meals without self-consciousness.

Unfortunately, as John’s comfort level grew, Sherlock’s diminished. He couldn’t help but think of the evening to come. He was looking forward to touching John and more kissing and possibly some other things he’d Googled while John was in the shower. He understood the mechanics well enough. Still, there was no way of getting around it—he’d never really done any of it before. He had no way of knowing how he would respond.

“Hey, you okay in there?”

“Hmmm?”

“You left me for a moment. Is something the matter?”

“Nnnnnnnnno.”

“Yeah, that was convincing.”

“Sorry?”

“You’ve got your puzzled face on,” John said with a knowing smile.

“Oh.”

“Can I help?”

Sherlock frowned as he considered how to frame his concerns. “It’s just…tonight.”

“Okay.”

“And the kissing. And things.”

John set his fork down immediately, abandoning his pudding, and took Sherlock’s hand. His face was sombre. “I was just teasing before, Sherlock. Honestly. We don’t have to do anything at all, okay?”

“But…”

“I don’t want you to feel any pressure—”

“John, will you please listen to me?”

“Or to think we’re on some kind of timeline. We’ve only just sorted ourselves out, for god’s sake.”

“John!”

“Or that our relationship has to be about that at all. I mean I know what I said, but sex isn’t the most important thing. Not between you and me.”

“JOHN, I WANT TO HAVE SEX WITH YOU!”

John snapped back in his seat, eyes wide. His mouth opened and closed twice—like a bloody carp—and then…

He burst out laughing. Sherlock stared, confused, as John doubled right over and howled. He was clutching his gut, snorting like a schoolboy at a joke about breaking wind.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and waited. He glared at a nosy woman who peeked over her shoulder from the table closest to them. And he all but snarled at the young man who looked into their private space on his way to the loo.

Finally, John gasped and wiped at his eyes with his napkin. “Oh, god, that was brilliant,” he sighed.

“You are utterly ridiculous,” Sherlock drawled. He crossed his arms over his chest. “I have no idea what I see in you.”

“Conductor of light, remember?” John sidled closer and dropped his hand under the table to pat Sherlock’s thigh.

“Well, there’s that.”

“And I’m brave.” John leaned into Sherlock’s space and placed a delicate kiss just below his ear.

“Yes.”

“And I know how to do stuff.” John was nibbling now—feathery, butterfly brushes of lips and tongue along the length of Sherlock’s slender neck.

Sherlock leaned into the caress. “True…oh, that’s…”

“Good?” John growled into his ear.

John slid his hand along the inside of Sherlock’s thigh, which made Sherlock jump and instinctively clench his legs together. John’s hand froze in place, kneading the flesh gently.

“S-sorry,” Sherlock stammered. “Wasn’t expecting.”

“S’okay,” John soothed. “Whatever you like. Whenever.”

“I want… _yes_ …now…”

Sherlock swayed into John, eyes closed and mouth frozen in an inaudible “OH,” as John sucked at one particular spot on the side of his neck. John’s hand, meanwhile had continued to creep ahead as Sherlock’s thighs relaxed and fell open. Sherlock could not control the moan that escaped him as John’s knuckles brushed over his burgeoning erection for the first time.

John was giggling lightly in his ear now. “Time to go home, I think.” He pressed a kiss into Sherlock’s temple and pulled away.

“All right, lads?” Angelo said brightly. He entered their nook with both of their coats in hand. “Hope everything was satisfactory.

“Just great,” John replied cheerfully. He stood and took his own jacket from Angelo’s extended hand.

Angelo nodded. “I thought you might want these before you make your way to the door, yeah?”

Sherlock was still flushed and a bit disoriented. He frowned at Angelo’s knowing eyebrow waggle in his direction. Yet somehow a modicum of embarrassment did nothing to flag his arousal. He stood and took his coat, turning abruptly to face the wall to put it on.

He hurried from the restaurant, offering Angelo a hasty farewell, and pulled his coat tightly closed in front of him. He waited for John to join him on the pavement, and shivered at the chill as it hit his overheated skin. He had never felt anything like this before. It was amazing, but also disconcerting. At some point, he knew he would be overwhelmed. That was very clear now.

Fortunately, he knew John would be there to take care of him.

“Ready?”

John appeared at his side, pulling his gloves on. Sherlock stared at him for a moment, marvelling that anyone could underestimate the man.

Short, unassuming, mild-mannered doctor—that was the persona. But John was not the quiet, ordinary creature people supposed him to be. No, indeed. John Watson was very, very dangerous.

“And you’re all mine,” Sherlock muttered adoringly, hardly realizing he’d spoken the words aloud.

John’s broad smile was glorious. “I am that, yeah,” he agreed. “Take me home?”


	5. Chapter 5

The trip home in the cab was quiet, but filled with an almost giddy expectation.

It reminded Sherlock of their first cab ride together, the night John had first come to 221B. They were sitting closer now than they had been that first night, but Sherlock didn’t trust himself to actually touch John before they got home. He couldn’t stop himself from looking, though.

During their first taxi trip to Brixton, Sherlock and John had taken turns glancing at each other—in surprise and in blossoming appreciation. Tonight, however, Sherlock couldn’t focus on the city outside the cab at all. He stared at John…who was staring right back, with a perfectly contented expression on his face.

By the time they reached Baker Street, Sherlock was buzzing with anticipation and anxiety.

He waited—fingers picking at non-existent lint on his trousers—as John paid their driver. He followed John from the taxi and bounced on his heels as John fumbled his keys from his pocket and unlocked the door. John held the door and allowed him to enter first. Sherlock all but threw his coat at the hook on the wall and paused, twitching, at the bottom of the stairs while John finished with his own.

John strode toward him, his smile sensual and just a little bit predatory. Sherlock shivered.

“So,” John began.

Sherlock lunged.

He slammed John into the wall, the full force of his taller frame pinning John in place. One hand dug into John’s nape to hold his feisty doctor/soldier in place for his—admittedly—overzealous kisses. His free hand groped John’s shoulder, hip, bottom…oh god, his bottom.

“Gently,” John managed finally between kisses. “Easy, sweetheart. We have all night.”

Sherlock pressed in as close as he could get to the heat of John’s body. He released John’s neck and wrapped both long arms around him. “S-sorry,” he panted. “I want…I want…”

“Shhhh,” John soothed. He stroked over Sherlock’s back. “I know. Me, too. Feels like we’ve waited for this forever.”

Sherlock hummed his agreement into the crook of John’s neck, enjoying the spicy smell of John’s cologne.

“Why don’t we move this upstairs?” John suggested.

“Yes. Please.”

John eased them apart and gave Sherlock a reassuring kiss. He turned Sherlock gently and guided him from behind toward the stairs.

The staircase to their flat seemed endless somehow, with John’s fingertips searing into his waist through the thin wool of his suit jacket. Sherlock walked as quickly as he could with John attached to him. When they reached the landing, he allowed John to continue guiding him into the flat.

John stopped then and moved in. He wrapped one arm around Sherlock’s waist and flattened the other palm over his chest. Their bodies nestled together; John laid his cheek into the space between Sherlock’s shoulders.

“So here we are,” John said, his voice husky.

“Yes,” Sherlock breathed. He clasped at the hand that had slipped beneath his lapel to settle over his pectoral muscle. He bit his lip as John began to massage gently. The fabric of his dress shirt brushed rhythmically over his nipple and a thousand tiny sparks travelled the length of his torso to his penis. He swallowed a gasp and leaned into the touch.

“Would you like to sit on the sofa for a while?”

Sherlock shook his head vehemently.

“Should we go to…your room?”

Sherlock shook his head again.

“My room?” John asked gently, his breath ghosting over Sherlock’s nape. His arms tightened for a moment. “It’s all fine. Whatever you want is fine.”

Sherlock turned in John’s arms and cupped John’s face between his long-fingered hands. He regarded John carefully, as John did him. They searched each other’s features for the certainty they both felt.

“What I feel for you,” Sherlock began, “is more than affection. Though I feel that, too. I admire you. I respect you.”

“Me, too.”

“But I want everything, John. I want to feel as intimately attached to you as it is possible to be.”

“Oh, god. I want that, too.”

“I don’t know a lot about sex, but I know that I don’t want to have anything at all between us. I want to see and taste and touch every part of you that I can, because I know that it will add even more to my understanding of who you are and to the connection we have.”

“Sherlock…” John pulled him closer.

“I want to make you feel good, and for you to make me feel good, because I love you.”

“And I love you.”

“I want to be immersed in you. So I would like to be in your space, in your bed, surrounded by your things.” Sherlock inclined his head toward John. “Is that okay?”

John’s reply was very John: Action without words.

He closed the distance between them to catch Sherlock’s bottom lip between both of his own. He tilted his head, angling to bring them even closer together—bumping noses once—and then…oh, god. John moaned into the kiss as Sherlock sweetly parted his lips and their tongues brushed.

Sherlock felt John guiding him—tasting, teasing, nibbling—and did his best to follow. He sighed with relief as John’s arms tightened again and eliminated the remaining space between their bodies. He could feel John’s arousal pressed into his lower abdomen; his own was slotted neatly into the cradle of John’s thigh.

They rocked together, revelling in the freedom of this pleasure—this new thing that strangely felt not new at all. They gasped and keened together as they ground bodies and crushed lips.

John reached clumsily for the edges of Sherlock’s jacket, so Sherlock did likewise. Somehow, with a minimum of awkward arm twisting and giggling, they managed to get them both off. Sherlock slid both palms up and over John’s chest with an appreciative sigh before making quick work of his tie.

With a gentle kiss to the tip of Sherlock’s nose, John pulled back and held out his hand. When Sherlock took it, he walked toward the stairs leading to the upper floor.

Sherlock had never bothered to count the number of steps to John’s floor, and could not manage to keep track in this instance. Not when he was admiring the fit of John’s trousers over his buttocks as John led him up the stairs.

When they reached John’s room, John pushed the door open and led Sherlock inside. Without turning on the overhead light, he walked them over to the edge of the double bed and sat down. He continued to hold Sherlock’s hand while he reached over and switched on his bedside lamp.

Sherlock let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. He’d been dreading the idea of John really seeing him—all of him—without clothes for the first time in a fully lit room. And instead here they were, bathed in the weak, warm glow of the small lamp. John’s lovely face was washed in the amber light, shadows dancing in the laugh lines and dimples Sherlock adored.

John sat passively on the edge of the bed, smiling up at him with incredible tenderness. He reached up to rub a thumb over Sherlock’s cheekbone. “My god,” he muttered wonderingly. “How did I ever get this lucky?”

Sherlock stepped into the space John had left between his parted knees, and wrapped his arms around John’s shoulders. He dropped his cheek to the top of John’s head and sighed into John’s soft hair while John’s arms closed possessively around his narrow waist. “I’m the lucky one,” he whispered.

They clung to each other, moulding their bodies together. Sherlock revelled in the heat of John’s core against him and let his fingers wander over the breadth of John’s shoulders. His fingertips bounced over the edges of scar tissue—easily discernible through the fine cotton of John’s shirt—and he hesitated.

“S’okay,” John breathed against his middle. “I don’t mind.”

John’s hands, too, had begun to wander. He slid flattened palms along Sherlock’s spine to his shoulder blades and back down. Turning his face into Sherlock’s belly, he nuzzled and huffed while his hands slid over the curve of Sherlock’s bottom.

Sherlock moaned, momentarily ceasing his own gentle exploration of John’s scar. He tightened the muscles under John’s hands and John purred his approval. John’s fingers curled into the toned yet plump flesh and squeezed.

“Oh, god, John…”

“Sherlock, fuck…”

John’s tongue had found the gap between the straining buttons of Sherlock’s shirt. John twirled wet heat against Sherlock’s flesh until Sherlock was gasping.

John swiftly released Sherlock’s bum to give his full attention to the shirt that was now blocking his path. Sherlock released John’s shoulders to help—fingers shaking as he tried to get the buttons undone as quickly as possible.

“Damn it!”

John chuckled and patted Sherlock’s uncertain digits. “Easy. S’all right. I’ve got this.”

Sherlock relented. He rested against John and allowed himself to be undressed. He stroked his fingers through John’s hair and watched with heavy lidded eyes as the buttons released and the fabric parted.

John buried his face in Sherlock’s pale skin with a groan. He returned his hands to Sherlock’s bottom to hold Sherlock in place as he lapped and sucked at the exposed torso. He licked over the ridges of abdominal muscles and traced the bottom edge of one firm pectoral. He kissed around the small mound before finally dragging his tongue over the surface. Sherlock’s head fell back, eyes closed and mouth wide open on a moan.

“More?”

Sherlock tried to reply, but his tongue had stuck to the back of his throat. He nodded and clenched his fingers in John’s short hair.

John kissed the tip of hardening nipple. “So perfect. So sweet.”

“Please…?” Sherlock croaked.

“What would you like, sweetheart?”

“Mmm-mouth. There.”

“You want my mouth…here?” John rubbed his thumb over Sherlock’s nipple, and then rolled it between his thumb and forefinger. “Would you like me to kiss you here?”

“Yes!”

John obliged him, pressing a tender, open-mouthed kiss to the firm bud and teasing the tip with the tip of his tongue. “Would you like me to…suck?”

Sherlock nearly shouted his assent. He bowed his body toward the promise of John’s hot mouth—his knees buckled as John closed his lips over the nipple and began to suck hard. John growled into the sensitive flesh and braced Sherlock against his own body. The ridge of his erection was throbbing against Sherlock’s leg, while Sherlock had begun grinding his own insistent arousal against the reassuring firmness of John’s chest.

Sherlock mewled as John teased at his nipple with teeth and tongue, and then shifted to begin all over on the other side.

“J-John. Oh, god, John…feels so..”

He tightened his fingers in John’s hair and held John to him as tightly as he could. It felt so good, so unbelievable good, and streaked heat right through him to the raging erection in his trousers. He was just beginning to worry that it might all be over too soon, when he felt John’s hands at his waistband.

John drew away from Sherlock’s chest with a sigh and dropped his gaze to the fastening of his trousers. “Let’s just get these out of the way.”

Sherlock took the opportunity to slip his arms from his shirt. “You, too,” he insisted.

John glanced up at him with a wicked grin. “Your wish,” he teased and met Sherlock half way for a quick kiss.

He undid Sherlock’s trousers and tugged them, along with the simple black briefs beneath, down over Sherlock’s thighs. Sherlock flushed as his penis bounced free and strained upward toward his belly.

“Well, hello,” John crooned. He pulled Sherlock close once more and kissed a trail down his belly. He lapped gently at the head of Sherlock’s penis. “Aren’t you lovely?”

“JOHN!”

Sherlock’s thighs shook with the effort of keeping himself upright. He gazed down in wonder as John tasted him. He was shocked at the few drops of moisture gathering in his slit, but John didn’t seem to mind.

“P-please. God, John. I can’t—”

John sighed and kissed his way back up Sherlock’s belly as he stood. He mouthed up Sherlock’s neck to capture his lips in a searing kiss. Sherlock moaned into his mouth and wrapped both arms around his neck. He ground his naked, aching body into John’s—near desperation now.

John continued kissing him as he tore at his own clothes. Sherlock tried to help, tugging here and there at a sleeve or a pocket. Eventually, they both stepped out of their pants and John guided them down to the bed. They lay side by side, stroking and nuzzling.

“Lovely,” John panted. “So lovely.”

He eased a hand down over Sherlock’s ribcage and hip to cup over the heat of his groin. Sherlock moaned and arched into the touch. John trailed his fingers over Sherlock’s length, looking down between their bodies to watch. Sherlock did not miss the look of surprise and delight on John’s face as he wrapped his fist around Sherlock for the first time.

“Oh, John…yes.”

Sherlock jerked his hips awkwardly in an unschooled effort to gain friction. John obliged, stroking up and down his length twice.

“You are so beautiful like this,” John murmured, now gazing into Sherlock’s eyes. “I can’t wait to see you come.”

“Not without you,” Sherlock responded quickly, feeling a little panicked. “Please!”

“Shhhhh, sweetheart. Can’t you feel what you do to me?”

John guided Sherlock’s hand to the juncture of his thighs, and pressed the palm over his own stiff penis. Sherlock glanced down, anxious to see. He gasped as his fingers closed around John’s girth.

“Are you…is that…?”

John chuckled softly, continuing to slide his hand over Sherlock’s erection. “A little thicker, maybe. Not unusually so.”

Sherlock’s mouth watered. He wanted so much to test his theories about John’s larger than average member with his lips and tongue, but he knew there wouldn’t be time. Not now. He was too close.

He moaned as John rubbed over a deliciously sensitive spot on his penis and he tried to inch closer. John panted in his ear, thrusting gently into the fist Sherlock had made with his long fingers. They rutted together this way for a few minutes, until John grabbed Sherlock by the waist and pulled him close. He rolled them until Sherlock was sprawled on top of him, thighs draped on either side of John’s hips. Sherlock wriggled into place, settling as…

“JESUS!!!” John arched off the bed, head thrown back, as Sherlock’s hard length slid alongside his own for the first time. He gasped and dug his fingers into Sherlock’s arse cheeks.

Sherlock felt a heady rush of power as he watched John writhing mindlessly beneath him. He was the first—for this. John’s first male partner. He rolled his hips experimentally, eyes widening as John moaned and thrashed. He moved again, with more pressure this time. John’s head snapped forward and he stared straight into Sherlock’s eyes.

“Oh my god,” he moaned. “Oh, god, Sherlock. It feels…it’s so…good. So good. Oh, sweetheart…more…”

Sherlock flushed with joy as he drove their bodies together—up and back, up and back. He watched John’s every gasp and needy thrust with delight. He was making John feel this. And John was making him feel…

He shuddered as John slipped one hand from his bottom, down over his crack to his perineum. Sherlock jerked helplessly—stuttering his thrust against John’s body to a halt—as John palpated over that sensitive spot.

He looked down to find John watching him.

“What…?” Sherlock gasped.

“Prostate,” John panted. “I understand it’s even better from inside.”

Sherlock’s eyes fell shut and lost himself to his body’s mindless need to grind from the pressure of John’s hand forward into the hard, hot length of John’s erection trapped between their bodies and back again.

“Oh, yeah,” John breathed. “Just like that.”

“John…”

“Oh, fuck…oh, god, yeah. Are you close, sweetheart?”

Sherlock nodded weakly. The heat was pooling in his belly and he knew he wouldn’t last much longer.

John thrust up against him. “Me, too. So close. My love. So beautiful…”

Sherlock’s arms began to shake as he reached his peak. “Oh, JOHN!”

His body throbbed as he spurted all over himself and John, nearly collapsing with the force of it.

“Yes, yes, YES! Oh, Sherlock!”

John thrust once, twice more, and Sherlock could feel the addition of John’s come all over their bellies. They held each other tight as they shook through the aftershocks.

Finally, Sherlock began to droop. John drew him down into the circle of his arms. He kissed Sherlock’s brow, over his eyelids and down over his cheeks.

“I love you,” he whispered. “I love you so much.”

Sherlock purred with satisfaction and settled his head into John’s good shoulder, heedless of the stickiness between them. “Love you, too.”

John chuckled and petted his hair. “Sleepy?”

“Hmmmmm.”

“Okay. Rest now. We’ll clean up in a bit.”

“M’kay,” Sherlock agreed. “Love you


	6. Chapter 6

It happened quite by accident.

At least that's what Sherlock told himself in quiet moments.

He hadn't really intended for anyone to find out about the change in his relationship with John. He hadn't really intended for anyone _not_ to find out either. It simply hadn't occurred to him that anyone else would care. And it certainly wasn't anyone else's business.

Still, he supposed, it stood to reason that anyone who knew either of them would have noticed that something was different.

It came about on a perfectly ordinary Tuesday, following a case involving the theft of some rare manuscripts from a private collection. He'd attended the crime scene alone, as sometimes happened when John had locum work. The case hadn't been terribly trying, and so—with only a few quick texts to John—he found himself at New Scotland Yard.

“Just about done?” Lestrade asked genially.

Sherlock nodded and returned his attention to the paperwork in front of him. He reviewed his statement and signed his name to the bottom with a flourish. With one finger, he pushed the paper back across Lestrade's desk.

“No John today, then?”

“Busy,” Sherlock said casually. He stood and tied his scarf around his neck. “The new children's clinic.”

“Oh, right.” Lestrade stood as well and shoved his hands in his pockets. “I didn't think he was doing much doctoring these days.”

Sherlock shrugged and reached for his coat. “Not much, but he likes to keep his hand in.”

“Course,” Lestrade agreed, nodding. “Still, whatever he's doing must be working.”

One arm halfway into a sleeve, Sherlock hesitated. “How do you mean?”

“Well, he's just so much happier these days,” Lestrade said. “We went to the pub last week.”

“I am aware.”

“Yeah, well, he laughed and joked all night,” Lestrade recalled. “And he had one beer. One. Honestly, I've never seen him like that. Not since I've known him. I mean, he's always been easy enough to get on with, but then there was also a kind of weight to him, you know? Like something was eating away at him.”

Sherlock glared at him. “And you think that is unusual in a doctor who has survived a war and a painful divorce and...the kinds of things he has seen with me?”

“No, that's not—look, I know he had reasons. But there was something else to it.” Lestrade watched Sherlock with a pointed expression. “And I just think, well, I think the thing that's changed? It's really good.”

Sherlock felt colour rising to his face as he fussed with his gloves. “I'll be sure to pass along your glad tidings, then,” he said, with as much sarcasm as he could muster.

Lestrade grinned like a fool. “You do that. And you can keep some for yourself while you're at it.”

With a huff, Sherlock swept from the room. He could hear Lestrade chuckling behind him, but refused to look back.

It wasn't that he minded people knowing, he told himself as he strode from the building. Not at all. It was just that what he shared with John was not something that should be considered extraordinary. Most people loved, didn't they? It was common; part of the human experience. Even expected.

Still, his relationship wasn't something he felt comfortable chitchatting about. He and John were just...he and John. Just that. They were together in every way, and that was just the way it was. No explanation was necessary. No fanfare.

He was still pondering this as he exited the cab at 221B. He glanced up, suddenly feeling weary, and his heart lightened. The lights were on.

“John,” he sighed.

The corner of his mouth turned up in a half smile. He hurried inside, quickly dispensing with his coat. Up the stairs, two at a time, and then...

“Hey, you're home,” John said jovially.

He was walking out of the kitchen with napkins and cutlery in hand. He paused on his way to meet Sherlock at the sitting room door. He stretched up and planted a gentle kiss on Sherlock's mouth. “Hello,” he whispered.

“Hello,” Sherlock replied, smiling down into John's face.

“Good day?”

“More or less.”

“Oh?” John continued toward the sofa and set the napkins and cutlery down on the coffee table.

Sherlock trailed behind, pulling his suit jacket off as he walked. He draped it over the back of a chair. “It wasn't a bad case, per se.”

“But...” John prompted. He sat down on the sofa and patted the seat beside him.

Sherlock settled next to John and shifted as close as he could get as John's arm slipped around his shoulders. He sighed and leaned into John's side.

“But?” John prompted again.

“It just wasn't the same,” Sherlock said lightly.

“As?” John pestered, chuckling as he pressed a kiss into Sherlock's temple.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Really, John? Every time? Every time you are not with me on a case you need me to tell you that it would have been better had you been there?”

“Maybe,” John chuckled.

Sherlock sighed, entirely resigned and not really put out in the least. “Well, it would have been. Of course it would.”

“It would,” John agreed. He nuzzled at Sherlock's hair. “I like being a doctor, but I hate not being with you.”

“I hate it, too.”

“I ordered supper,” John said. “Moroccan.”

“Mmmmm. Thank you.”

“So tell me about the case.”

“You got my texts.”

“I did,” John agreed, running his fingers through Sherlock's dark curls. “But I'm curious as to how the residue under the fingernails factors into it all.”

“Oh, that,” Sherlock said dismissively. “ I noticed there was some discolouration on the corner of several pages in the remaining books...”

More than two hours later—dinner arrived and consumed and the entire case laid bare, in addition to the details of each of John's patients throughout the day—John finally rose from their comfortable position on the sofa.

Sherlock watched him cross the room through heavy-lidded eyes. “What are you doing?”

John continued on his path, finally stopping near Sherlock's desk. He turned the computer and plugged in the external speakers nearby before flipping the lid open.

“John?” Sherlock asked again, sitting up now.

“Patience,” John drawled. He tapped away at the keys and finally stood back with a satisfied smirk.

The music emerged gently. Sherlock blinked several times as he recognized the song. It was the first song he and John had ever danced to after...after...

John turned then and walked back to the sofa. “Shall we?”

Sherlock reached out for John's extended hand with a smile. He stood, stepped around the coffee table and drifted easily into John's embrace. He wrapped one arm around John shoulders, while John's fitted securely around his waist. His right hand in John's left, bodies tight together, John began to sway.

Sherlock followed John's lead, shifting with the easy rhythm of Etta James.

“At last,” John breathed into Sherlock's ear along with the song.

“My love has come along,” Sherlock continued, burying his nose into the soft strands of John's hair.

“My lonely days are over.”

“Over,” Sherlock repeated.

“Over,” John sighed, rubbing their cheeks together.

“At last.”

“With a little luck,” John whispered.

“And a little patience,” Sherlock agreed. “And courage. Courage, my love.”

They moved together, bodies—and souls, perhaps, if one believed in such things—as one. It was, Sherlock supposed, the way it was always meant to be. Sherlock and John. Holmes and Watson. Inseparable.

“I love you, Sherlock,” John said gently.

“I love you, too.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, there it is. I hope you enjoyed this little fic. I certainly enjoyed imagining this version of John's awakening, and I decided to end with the very thing our Ginger Dad has said about a detective show where the male detective just happens to come home to his husband. And a little slow dancing.
> 
> Just a reminder that you can find me on tumblr: fanfic-by-plainjane. Feel free to come and chat!


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